<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>This edge of life, this tremulous brink by MissFlitworth</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477083">This edge of life, this tremulous brink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth'>MissFlitworth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:21:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,649</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They go somewhere, they walk, they are in love, they are soft.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>This edge of life, this tremulous brink</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title is from 'Port Meadow - Oxford' by Elizabeth Jennings</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> has a craving to go to Oxford. Go back, technically; he taught there for a while. Crowley went to watch, once. Mostly </span>
  <span>Aziraphale’s</span>
  <span> ‘lectures’ compromised him giving up on his prepared material as soon as possible in order to question the students about what </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>knew and the he’d get a delighted look and beam at the young person imparting whatever ‘facts’ they picked up at the pub the night before. He’d enjoyed that. Hadn’t enjoyed the classism and albeism and bullshit, or seeing the homeless people be forgotten or the people who actually worked in the city and for the university getting paid pittances.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t even like it there,” Crowley grumbles. He’s laid out across Aziraphale’s couch, leg over the back, head tipped off the side. It’s comfy, he’s warm, he doesn’t want to drive bloody miles. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I like the river,” Aziraphale says. He’s in the shop-proper, fussing about with something. Rearranging his books. Or just looking at them. Probably stroking the covers and sighing in happiness about them existing. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a river here,” Crowley says, after a delay, drowsy and slow. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> doesn’t have an answer to that. Crowley feels smug for winning and smug for not having to drive to Oxford. He taught there for a while, too. He’d had a lot of fun with that, he did as few lectures as possible, made sure to have just enough truth so people wouldn’t notice the little lies he snuck in, and just hung around his office, encouraging all sorts of things to the students who sought him out for tutorials. </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> had put rather a </span>
  <span>dampner</span>
  <span> on that by showing up and bringing his little tartan flask of tea and camping out in Crowley guest-sofa. It was hard to encourage students to greater heights of chaos when there was a fussy, prim little angel sat there, sticking his oar in at every opportunity to correct Crowley or go ‘oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?! Is that true?’ whenever he found the students interesting, encouraging them to learn things and stuff instead of having fun.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Knowledge is a sin, anyhow,” Crowley says, opening his eyes. Aziraphale’s stood over him, coat over his arm, holding out Crowley’s jacket. Crowley makes a negative kind of grumble. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes well, I don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Aziraphale says. “We’ll miss the traffic if we leave now.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley groans, hauling himself up and flopping over the back of the sofa, flicking his jacket out of Aziraphale’s hand as he passes. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon then,” Crowley says, then pauses. “Love.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Yes? What about it?” Aziraphale says, gesturing Crowley ahead of him with a little bow.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought I’d try it out. ‘s’n insult,” Crowley says. Clicks his fingers. “No, no. Whatchama-thingy.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Endearment?” Aziraphale suggests, as they step out into the street. He waves a hand and the shop locks itself. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Tha’s the badger,” Crowley agrees. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He checks the Bently’s still nice and shiny as he walks to the drivers’ side. He starts the engine and admires the sound it makes, like it’s purring. Aziraphale makes an impatient noise so Crowley makes sure he pulls away with a yank, putting his foot down so they shoot away as quick as possible. A bit quicker than is possible, really, if he’s truthful. Aziraphale makes squeaky noises and voices his complaints about it all and then goes quiet, trying to hold onto something as they roar through London.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Crowley says. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well what?” Aziraphale says, clipped and annoyed, and gasps after, hands flying up. “Crowley!”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They miss the buss that was coming toward them by </span>
  <em>
    <span>miles</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Centimetres to spare. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>endearment</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Crowley says. “Yes, no, maybe?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Aziraphale says. “Please slow down.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I like when you call me ‘angel’,” Aziraphale says, sounding quiet and wounded about it all. Crowley speeds up so he goes back to squeaking and outraged instead of that punctured tone.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s just a fact. Not an endearment. Like when you call me ‘dear’, just a figure of speech.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You are dear to me,” Aziraphale protests. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p><span>Crowley shrugs. He quite likes it when </span><span>Aziraphale</span><span> calls him dear, if he’s honest. Which, well, where’s the fun in being honest? He does slow down a bit, and </span><span>Aziraphale</span><span> relaxes, looking for some music, rifling through the glove compartment and making little comments about things he finds there. His pleasure when he finds the chocolate bar (which Crowley definitely left there by accident and not so </span><span>Aziraphale</span><span> would find it) makes Crowley slow the car a little more, heart doing a funny soft thudding thing. They settle into the journey, then, the Sex Pistols singing ‘Old Fashioned Lover Boy’, the sun weak but lighting </span><span>Aziraphale’s</span> <span>hairand</span><span> profile and smile.  </span></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>is where you wanted to come?” Crowley says, shutting the Bentley door dubiously, unsure he really wants to stay out of the car now they’ve arrived here. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>‘Here’ has been a short, twisty little road, hedges pressing close, a weird burst of countryside in the city. And now ‘here’ is a tiny picturesque village, even though they’re in the city, it’s very weird. And, also, ‘here’ is parking by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>church</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Crowley isn’t big on churches. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I just want a quick look at the treacle well and the goats,” Aziraphale says, bustling away. “Won’t be a mo!”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley leans on the Bentley and puts on his sunglasses. It’s not really bright enough to need them but Crowley likes the way they look. And besides, people are less likely to stop and talk cheerfully at you about their dog if you wear sunglasses. Crowley glares at the happy looking woman with her yappy looking Jack Russel to be on the safe side as she passes him by without a glance. Crowley looks away, scanning the church and the wall and finding Aziraphale, watching him make his way away from Crowley. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s funny, really. That he’s ended up here, like this, nothing in the world to do but wait on an angel. He’s enjoying retirement. Not that he doesn’t, now and then, just for the fun of it, keep his hand in. As it were. He’s always looked at his job as less ‘doing evil’ and more ‘pissing off Heaven and breaking as many of its stupid rules as possible’ anyway, and now he doesn’t have to try so hard to disguise it as evil it’s a whole lot easier. Heaven, for example, likes churches. So why not, just once, just for this one time… </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes later they’re driving away from the church, </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> fuming, and instead they can park at the pub. Crowley tries not to grin too widely or be too obvious about replaying the goats and chickens and things getting out from the small… farm? House? Egg business? Whatever it is that’s down beside the church. They somehow got out, and into the churchyard, and wouldn’t you know someone had carelessly left the door ajar. Crowley can’t help </span>
  <span>hum</span>
  <span> as he shuts the car door with much more enthusiasm and saunters toward the pub, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale comes after him hands clasped together, mouth tight, cross and taking cross little steps and being all prim and cross in Crowley’s direction. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> says, dismayed, when they walk into the pub, crossness falling away. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley knows why. Gone is the slight dilapidation and way out of date decor and kind of sticky floor. Not that the Perch was ever really grubby, per se, but it wasn’t this fancy bistro type of thing with actually nice furnishing and full of people and food that </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> might like but probably will disapprove of. Crowley takes </span>
  <span>Aziraphale’s</span>
  <span> arm and steers him to the bar, hoping to head off whatever spiral of disappointment and rant about commercialism is coming, leaning to wait the couple of moments it takes </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> to get served. He’s pretty sure </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> has never noticed it, but no matter how busy a bar or pub is, the staff always notice </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span>, and they’re drawn to him. He always skips the queue, and no one waiting minds a bit. It’s not an angelic thing, either. Crowley’s made observation: he’s lured a few into inns and taverns over the years just to see. Just to check. It’s all </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> and his smile and big-eyed wonder. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, there’ll still be the garden, it’ll still be nice,” Crowley murmurs, as the bar-person comes over to get their order. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> still wastes their time asking a lot of questions about what’s changed. </span>
  <span>Eventualyl</span>
  <span> they take their drinks out and sit under the trees, Aziraphale lamenting the loss of the playground, replaced now by an events tent. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“There used to be the most wonderful tyre swing,” Aziraphale says, sadly, gazing around. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t even like children,” Crowley mutters, watching a few run about. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I do!” Aziraphale exclaims, hand against his chest like he’s been shot, ever dramatic. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Warlock doesn’t count,” Crowley says. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Children are the most-”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley cuts off whatever platitude or sentimental nonsense it is Aziraphale’s about to regurgitate. He learns these things off by heart and goads Crowley into asking so he can trot them out, smug and sure and line by line from some textbook or manual Crowley’s certain Heaven keeps. Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> much like children. He thinks they’re wonderful in theory, and he likes listening to them talk, and he’d used to get this look when Warlock was really small and Aziraphale would hold him, astounded by it all. But, leave him alone with children and he’d not have a clue what to do with them or himself. Aziraphale shrugs, shoulders slumping, looking morosely into his glass. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No good?” Crowley asks. “I could…”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Oh, the wine. It’s fine,” Aziraphale says. “I was just thinking, don’t worry.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a sigh and Crowley looks around for inspiration, something to cheer him up. When his gaze returns to Aziraphale though, he’s smiling softly at Crowley, eyes stupidly warm. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Crowley says. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Crowley. I’m fine,” Aziraphale says. “I had a passing thought, it happens. It’s not the end of the world if I’m sad for a moment or two now and then.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sad?” Crowley asks. “Was it the goats?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale laughs, reaching over to take Crowley’s hand, lifting it to press his cheek to, eyes falling closed against his amusement. He’s so beautiful, his face all fine lines, graceful, fragile though Crowley knows he isn’t. No one anywhere looks anything like Aziraphale. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not the goats, my dear. I’m happy, I promise. Though, do not think I will forget that in a hurry. Such a rapscallion,” Aziraphale says. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Rapscallion. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley scrunches his face up and finishes his drink, accepting </span>
  <span>Aziraphale’s</span>
  <span> assurances. He has a feeling it’s all stupid stuff about not being a ‘good’ angel - angels are supposed to be good with children and love them all as delights. Crowley gets up and </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> follows, nudging him toward the little path, making another comment about the tyre swing as they pass by the hedge that used to hide the playground. They come out on the river bank, the pathways dusty, the air full of oncoming summer but still cool enough to keep people away. As they walk toward town, toward the bridges and the meadow, </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> takes Crowley’s arm. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s peaceful, quiet, they’re not bothered by anyone. They talk idly now and then but mostly remain silent. They stop on the bouncy bridge to lean, to peer over to look at the fish in the water. Someone cycles over behind them and the whole bridge bounces, Aziraphale tells a story about a dog he had at some point who hadn’t trusted the bridge at all and had slunk across, belly close to the wood, nose down, and refused to stay on a  moment longer than she had to. Crowley remembers the dog. She’d been a stubborn, grumpy thing, hadn’t liked being petted most of the time, snapped and growled at everyone. She’d accepted affection from Aziraphale. And, after a bit, from Crowley. The trick was to offer it and if she said no, leave her be. Once she trusted you weren’t going to stroke her when she didn’t want it, she’d even come to you sometimes. She’d loved Aziraphale. And, after a while, Crowley. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They walk on, Crowley taking </span>
  <span>Aziraphale’s</span>
  <span> hand this time. They walk the other side of the river, across the meadow, until </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> pulls them to a stop. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and just stands there taking deep breaths, tension leaving him. It’s colder here, the wind coming across the meadow unobstructed. There are horses, the river with </span>
  <span>its</span>
  <span> boats and birds, the trees lining the railway track across the other side, distant. People walking, a group of teenagers huddled atop a rise. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“We could get a dog,” Crowley says. “Keep him at my flat, maybe. I’ve got that garden out the back, now.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know why, but I feel like I can breathe here,” </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> says, ignoring the dog thing. He’s already said Crowley can’t have a dog in the bookshop. “It’s beautiful, like this, quieter times of the year. I feel like there’s something else here.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bloody God, I hope. She better not be spying on us,” Crowley says, pushing his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to be touched, Crowley can tell. He gives Crowley a scolding look, but it’s cursory. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, underneath, over,” Aziraphale waves a hand. “There’s… bones.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, most places,” Crowley agrees with a shrug. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s, it’s like it’s in my bones. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> bones, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>bones. Like this is someone’s country, people’s home. Love, trodden right into the meadow, paths walked over and over until they’re part of them, like this is echoed in them,” Aziraphale trails off again, squinting. “I can feel it.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Ok,” Crowley says. “Like Tadfield? It’s loved?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Different,” Aziraphale says. “There’s less choice in it. I can’t describe it.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, ok,” Crowley says, feeling kind of awkward, uncomfortable. He’s a demon, he’s not gonna feel all the shite Aziraphale does; he gets it. He looks up at the sky, at the river, away. Aziraphale’s hand lands against his shoulder, warm, reassuring. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like it here?” Aziraphale asks, steering Crowley back toward the path, heading them back in the direction of the car. They’re not staying out long today, then. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, ‘s’nice,” Crowley says. Thinks about it. There’s an odd ache under his ribs, against his sternum. “Maybe… maybe I get it… just a little?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I can never tell what a person is thinking or feeling,” Aziraphale says. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, so?” Crowley says, struggling to follow the leap Aziraphale’s just made. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t get it. You do,” Aziraphale says. “Places are… easier. Things are easier. People just… hurt. They rush off to do something before you can get a grasp. Places hold still for me.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley smiles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>held still. Waited. </span>
  <span>Aziraphale</span>
  <span> never asked it, but when he noticed </span>
  <span>it</span>
  <span> he’d got this look on his face, like no one had ever done it for him before. </span>
  <span>So</span>
  <span> Crowley kept doing it, to prove something. To prove he could, or to probe he wasn’t too fast, maybe, or that Aziraphale was worth slowing for, that Aziraphale’s going slow didn’t mean Crowley would leave him behind. Something. If he can’t tell complicated things about a meadow, so what? He’s ok with that. Aziraphale’s started to hum, hands knitted in front of himself. Crowley reaches over, rests his own hand over them until the fingers unclench. Aziraphale smiles at him and the rest of the way his hands flap about in front of him, like the air is something more, to conduct and tug and swim through. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
<hr/><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you happy, dear?” Aziraphale asks in the car, later, driving somewhere to find food. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” Crowley says, embarrassed. </span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Because he is, deliriously, ridiculously, giddy with it.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>